I have it about me. I often wonder why the young always take us ancients for nambypamby creatures. Wood's reception of the widow, who, at that moment, was ushered into the room by Winifred, was not particularly kind and encouraging. He remained standing by the stem of the proa, his glance roving investigatingly. Only how had they missed him? Were they imbecile? Or perhaps the mists had concealed him from them.
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